


The Jig is Up

by lilleeboi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety, Arguing, Best Friends, Bittersweet, Dogs, Friendship/Love, Gen, Light Angst, Pining, Plans For The Future, References to Depression, Secrets, just because I said so, they have matching pyjamas :')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilleeboi/pseuds/lilleeboi
Summary: On the way home, Sachirou feels Hoshiumi lean into him like a reminder.“Thank you,” Sachirou whispers.Hoshiumi head-butts his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” he chirps, without even asking what for. “It’s a nice night.”Sachirou is afraid to look at his friend, afraid to make eye contact, afraid he might cry if given the opportunity. It would be easier to stare straight ahead. Sachirou looks anyway.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou & Hoshiumi Kourai
Kudos: 1





	The Jig is Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my pieces for _Devoted_ , the next generation captains zine, which is available [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1XcDCa1OKSd1-YnlPictRubGLKWA7q_--/view) for free! We all worked super hard on it, so please check it out if you're interested in seeing all the awesome art and writing about Haikyuu's second year captains (★^O^★)
> 
> Thank you to the lovely [@slainephoto](https://twitter.com/slainephoto) for beta reading!

The morning rolls in like just another dream, silent against the backdrop of winter sky and the feeling of forgetting something important. Sachirou’s world is fuzzy at the edges; he’s dissociating again, soul whorling out past his periphery, or maybe that’s his vision still blurred from sleep. 

Either way, he feels like he’s still dreaming.

He’s cushioned in that feeling, that something isn’t quite right, a hazy sort of anxiety that gnaws at your gut but never reaches the smart part of your brain, stuck in your amygdala for longer than any feeling should be allowed. Fat white flakes falling, melting when they kiss his cheeks, rolling down like tears when they turn to water. Suddenly he’s crying.

What is he even doing here?

The morning rolls in like just another dream, silent against the backdrop of winter sky and the feeling of forgetting something important. 

Sachirou’s world is fuzzy at the edges, his vision still blurred from sleep. This time, however, the feeling of reality around him is much more vivid, his anxieties sharp and tangible.  _ So the first time was a dream after all. _

_ This is why I have trust issues,  _ he thinks.

February third, a lucky day still struggling to make it big, and the smell of coffee gradually brings him further out of the stupor of sleep. It might as well be just another day, full of his own self-doubts.

He can hear the muffled voices of family gathered in the kitchen, like every other morning, the voices of happy, productive people with high, high hopes, and warmth oozing from their pores like sunlight.

Sunlight, pouring through his window glass, cold grey light from a cloudless, empty sky. 

He can hear them talking about him, their voices blending into the sounds of coffee mugs clinking on the edge of the counter and Kotarou’s tail thumping the floor.  _ Probably wondering why I’m not up yet, _ he supposes, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The balls of his feet meet the floor, which is just a little too chilly compared to the cozy pocket of his blankets, and he lifts his arms above his head in an exaggerated stretch, the way they do it in the movies.  _ Fake it ‘til you make it _ , he thinks as he yawns (unnecessarily) loudly. 

“Sachirou, is that you?” Mum calls, but doesn’t yell; sound travels far in this house.

“Yeah,” he calls back.

There’s the sound of scrabbling on hardwood, and then his bedroom door squeals open, Kotarou’s speckled nose poking through the crack. 

“Hi, there.”

In response, Kotarou sticks his whole head into the room, tongue out in the dog’s version of a smile. The brown rings of his eyes bore into Sachirou’s soul, but it’s not uncomfortable. Sometimes it feels like Kotarou is the only one who really understands, stupid as it sounds.   
  


“C’mere,” Sachirou stretches a hand out in invitation, and Kotarou obliges, his tail wagging as he trots over to his human and nuzzles into the waiting touch. The smooth fur of his head is a welcome warmth under Sachirou’s palm. “Good boy.”

Kotarou boofs.

Sachirou moves to press the door closed again before stripping out of his pyjamas and pulling on his pants. (No, he doesn’t change his underwear, and no, his mother doesn’t need to know about it.) 

Wandering out to the kitchen, Kotarou trails behind him, bumping into his calves—maybe on purpose, or maybe the dog can’t help it in his excitement.

“Sachirou,” Mum pads out into the hallway to greet him, hands reaching up to cup his face and study him. “How’s my boy doing?”   
  


“Good,” Sachirou swallows.   
  


“Do you feel different?” Shouko calls from the kitchen.   
  


“You do  _ look _ older,” his mother frets. “The lines in your face are deeper today.”   
  


He can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I’m just tired, Mum. I feel the same.”

“I’m only teasing,” She pats his cheek, smiling. “Come out and have some breakfast before you leave. I packed your lunch for you since you slept in.”

He follows her into the kitchen where Shouko is slurping her coffee. “You’re the best, thank you.”

“Oh, stop being silly,” She waves her arms around. “It’s your birthday, I’m allowed to spoil you.”

“You’re the one who had to give birth to me and put up with me for this long,” he points out, smiling tightly. He hopes it reaches his eyes. “I should be spoiling you.”

“He has a point,” Shouko interjects. That remark, and with the way she swings her long legs under the table, you wouldn’t know she’s four years older.

“Don’t you worry,” Mum’s cheeks are rosy when she says it. “I feel spoiled enough by having three such successful children! I couldn’t be—” She hiccups, the way she always does when she’s trying not to cry. “I couldn’t be more proud of my kids.”

Sachirou feels his stomach squeeze in discomfort.   
  


“Mum,” Shouko rolls her eyes, but it looks affectionate. 

Unlike the rest of his family, Sachirou isn’t a caffeine addict. But a little coffee couldn’t hurt—not when he’s this tired, fatigue pulling at the perfect smile and threatening to expose how he really feels—so he makes it tolerable with heaping portions of milk and sugar.

“We don’t have practice after school today, so I’ll be home early.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mum purses her lips, a pinch in her brow. “It would be nice to play on your birthday, wouldn’t it?”

Sachriou just hums. His guilt keeps him from lying, but it also keeps him from telling the truth. His gut flips and churns, even as he shucks on his winter coat. “I’m heading out now,” he says. “Thanks again for lunch, Mum.”

“Of course, honey.” Her eyes wander to the window. “Kourai is outside,” she says, like it’s special, like they don’t walk together every day. “He’s coming home with you?”

“Yep.”

“Good; be sure to tell him we’re going out for your birthday dinner tonight,” She smiles, pleased. “Have a good day!”

“I will,” Sachirou waves on his way out. 

Immediately, Sachirou is hit with a wall of cold. The ground feels solid beneath his feet, hardened by frost. He tucks his chin into the collar of his jacket.

“Good morning,” his words are a white puff of breath in the cold, lips chapped and trembling. Maybe he should have had water instead of coffee.

“Morning,” Hoshiumi chirps, although he almost sounds angry, as if being passive aggressive will somehow convince the temperature to change. “You look tired.”

Hoshiumi Kourai is beautiful. Maybe it’s weird to think your best friend is beautiful, but Sachirou doesn’t think so. In Hoshiumi, he sees brash determination and strength, densely bundled into one small, but fierce, package. 

“Thanks,” Sachirou’s reply is laced with sarcasm. 

They walk step-in-step, Hoshiumi’s legs stretching just a little farther to keep up. (Though Sachirou wouldn’t dare point it out.)

“Feel any different?”

“Nah,” Sachirou grins. “I feel the same.”

“Well,  _ that’s  _ disappointing.”

“What do you mean?”

Hoshiumi shrugs. “Thought you’d feel special or something.”

“I just feel tired,” Sachirou admits. “Didn’t sleep well. And it’s gonna be a long day.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going out for dinner tonight.”

Hoshiumi scowls softly. “Thought you wanted to stay in, this year.”

“Well, I told her I wanted to have a movie night with you, but that doesn’t mean we can’t go out first, I guess. More room in a restaurant.”

“Shit!”

Sachirou turns to his friend, walking sideways. “What?”

“I didn’t take any fancy clothes with me! Only pyjamas!”

“I don’t care if you wear pyjamas to dinner,” Sachirou jibes. “Might cause a conversation. My family could really use some topic inspiration; it’s always just volleyball, volleyball, volleyball.”

“It’s your birthday, you can talk about whatever you want. Puppies or whatever.”

“I guess.”

Hoshiumi stops abruptly. He slowly turns his gaze back to Sachirou. The look on his face makes Sachirou uncomfortable. 

It’s like he  _ knows _ .

“You didn’t tell them yet.”

Sachirou looks around, anywhere but at his friend’s piercing eyes. The sky is cloudy. A few fat flakes fall and join the snow stacked up against a shop window, packed and pressed against the glass, where he glimpses his own blank expression mirrored back. The ground is the colour of frozen dog shit. The silence is so painful, it might as well be screaming at him. 

His lips, still chapped, suddenly feel much more arid, sapped of all moisture. He goes to lick his lips, but his tongue is just as dry.

“You didn’t tell them yet,” Hoshiumi says again. He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets with that grumpy expression—endearing in any other situation.

Sachirou swallows thickly. “I didn’t.”

“You have to tell them.”

Sachirou pretends he doesn’t hear the way his friend’s voice cracks. 

“You’re graduating soon,” Hoshiumi continues. “You’re gonna have to tell them eventually.”

_ You don’t think I know that?  _ Sachirou keeps the thought to himself. “It’s fine,” he says instead.

They stand off for another moment, seething quietly. 

For as long as he can remember, Sachirou has felt like an impostor in his own skin; a puppet embodied by the wrong spirit. He’s a master at pretending; perfection with a hollow shell. 

But Sachirou wants. He wants and  _ wants _ , and Hoshiumi, for all his loyalty, is probably the worst secret-keeper Sachirou could have chosen.  _ He doesn’t know the half of it. He doesn’t understand. _

No one understands, except maybe Kotarou. It’s kind of fitting, actually; Sachirou wants, more than anything in the world, to work with animals. Pretty lame, right?

Hoshiumi doesn’t have to say anything for Sachirou to feel the frustration radiating from him in waves. It’s always been that way, something unspoken between them—the building tension of a boy about to speak, formulating words to either pack a punch or soften a blow. 

Finally, Hoshiumi breaks the silence, “They won’t be mad.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Bullshit,” Hoshiumi spits, glaring. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I don’t care if they’re mad—I know they won’t be—I just don’t want them to be disappointed, or...”

“Or what?” Hoshiumi asks impatiently, voice tight, and just a little too loudly; it catches the attention of a woman setting up shop, who looks over to where they stand.

It feels like there’s a weight in the centre of his chest, pulling him down into the ground, just a puddle of his former self—whoever that was. His smile falters, falling into something that feels more like a grimace. “I don’t know,” he concedes. “You don’t need to be so angry,” he bites. 

“I’m not!”

The shop keeper looks over again, brow quirked in suspicion.

Hoshiumi Kourai is beautiful, but he’s brash. Right now, Sachirou wants nothing more than to sock his friend in the mouth, shut him up. He steps forward, dropping his bag. Wind whips at his hair and clothes, disturbing the put-together look he’s so carefully crafted. Razor teeth sink into Sachirou’s gut; anxiety, served raw. “It’s  _ my  _ decision,” he says.

“Well, you’re making the  _ wrong  _ decision.”

He isn’t sure how he manages it, what with the way his heart is pounding and the sweat comes pouring out of his palms, but his fingers remain steady as he grips the lapels of Hoshiumi’s jacket and pulls the other boy forward. All the desire in the world isn’t enough to give Sachirou the confidence to be truthful with his family, so why now is he suddenly able to assert what he  _ wants _ ? (Maybe because things are always easier with Hoshiumi.)

He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, can’t remember how long it’s been since  _ anger _ felt like  _ alive _ .

“ _ Sachirou. _ ”

He isn’t expecting it. 

The words leave Hoshiumi’s lips like a prayer, soft and reverent, Sachirou’s name repeated barely above a whisper, but the intention loud enough to deafen. Despite the taller’s hands clutching at him, Hoshiumi’s arms extend to wrap around Sachirou’s middle.

Sachirou crumples at the touch, trapped in a hug that feels far too loving and forgiving. Anger withers to  _ wanting _ . It’s a longing he’s no stranger to, a deep-rooted desire to be understood.

The hug is awkward; Sachirou’s frame must be an uncomfortable weight for someone so short, but Hoshiumi is strong and he just keeps holding, even as the wind howls and rips around them, silvery and sharp.

Sachirou takes a shuddering breath to steady himself and prepares to withdraw from Hoshiumi’s embrace.

Hoshiumi doesn’t let go. “I’m not letting you go,” he says.

“I—” Sachirou begins.

“ _ Ever. _ ” 

Suddenly, he’s crying. “I—”

“EVER!” If Sachirou didn’t know better, he’d say that Hoshiumi is crying, too, into his chest, and probably getting snot on his uniform. “Got it?”

Sachirou nods, his chin brushing the floof of hair on Hoshiumi’s head. Despite himself, he huffs in amusement—just barely a laugh. “We’re going to be late.”

“It’s your birthday, we’re allowed to be a bit late,” the words are muffled by the fabric of Sachirou’s jacket. 

“We’re gonna be more than just ‘a bit’ late if you plan on  _ never  _ letting go.”

“Ugh, you know that’s not what I meant.”

Sachirou knows, the same way he always seems to know what his friend is thinking. Sachirou  _ knows _ , the same way he knows the sun will rise and set no matter what season it is, no matter how tired they are, no matter what other things they could be doing. 

“I can tell you’re thinking something stupid right now,” Hoshiumi says.

“I’m not,” Sachirou lies, slick.

They pull apart, hands still clutching at each other’s clothes. “I’m not gonna force you to tell them tonight…”

Sachirou sighs with relief, ignoring the shop keeper’s prying eyes.

“But!” he continues. “If you don’t tell them before you graduate—if you even  _ think _ about not following your dreams—” Sachirou can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “—I’m gonna beat you up.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sachirou says.

“Just try me.”

* * *

Sachirou tries not to shift too much in his seat. His whole family is gathered around the restaurant table, plates stacked with food. Fukurou drove three hours to be here. On the other side of the table, Mum and Dad seem to be having the time of their lives quizzing him up on the latest news about his career. Shouko, with her boyfriend right next to her, listens attentively, butting in whenever she spots an opportunity. Hoshiumi chews with his mouth open, just watching from his spot next to Sachirou in the booth.

He can feel the brush of Hoshiumi’s flannel pyjama pants against his hand—a bright, tingly feeling. He feels distinctly detached from the scene before him. Fukurou is exactly the kind of person Sachirou has tried to emulate from day one; successful, charismatic, a pro (just like Dad), level-headed, but enjoys the attention. Fukurou liked dogs first, but he’s not so attached that he can’t leave home to further his career. Sachirou can’t imagine leaving Kotarou behind for a game. He’s cushioned in this, the fuzzy spiraling sensation of not being in control. His head aches with anxious tension. He hiccups.

“Are you okay?” Hoshiumi’s face turns soft.

Sunset spills across the floor, buttery and pink. It mocks him in its pretty perfection. Sachirou trembles—Since when has he been this weak?—and grips at his friend’s leg to steady himself.

“What’s wrong?” Hoshiumi asks. A piece of food falls out of his mouth and back onto his plate.

Sachirou doesn’t  _ know  _ what’s wrong. He just wants to go home. 

“That’s enough about me,” Fukurou says at full-voice, drowning out Hoshiumi’s concerned tone. “Let’s hear about the birthday boy’s team! You’re the captain now, right? How’s that going?”

“Great!” Hoshiumi says, more food and spittle flying from his mouth. “Sachirou’s a great captain and the season’s going well. We’ve been _ so _ busy with practice, it’s all I can think about! I even forgot to bring a proper change of clothes,” He gestures to his winter pyjamas.

Sachirou’s family all nod in understanding. It’s not like they didn’t notice before—Sachirou knows they did, but only Shouko acknowledged it—the volleyball pattern on Hoshiumi’s pants is pretty hard to miss. 

“But,” Hoshiumi continues. “It’s not like volleyball is the only thing important. We’re also focusing on our studies and… and looking forward to the future.”

If they think it’s strange that Hoshiumi is talking on behalf of Sachirou, they don’t mention it, and Sachirou is glad. 

“Kourai-kun, what are you going to do after school?” Mum asks, head tilted.

“I’m going pro,” he says without missing a beat. His hand closes around Sachirou’s under the table where he’s still clutching at flannel.

“Oh, that’s so exciting!” she smiles. Everyone else smiles, too. Maybe if Sachirou and Hoshiumi swapped places there wouldn’t be a problem. Then again, Hoshiumi is from a family of fanatics, too. “Sachirou has been scouted by several schools and pro teams already,” Mum adds, to no one in particular. “But he hasn’t decided yet. Have you, Sachirou?”

“No,” Sachirou’s chin dimples as he tries not to cry. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you have lots of options,” Fukurou chuckles. 

Sachirou feels Hoshiumi squeeze his hand. Like this, with Hoshiumi’s steady presence, the rest of dinner passes a little quicker. When there’s a lull in the conversation—which inevitably maintains its course on volleyball—Sachirou finally feels settled enough in his skin, and less like he’s about to implode, to speak his mind.

“I think I’m ready to go home, now,” he says. And that’s that. Some tiredness must show on his face, because not even Shouko teases him about turning in early. 

On the way home, Sachirou feels Hoshiumi lean into him like a reminder.

“Thank you,” Sachirou whispers.

Hoshiumi head-butts his shoulder. “You’re welcome,” he chirps, without even asking what for. “It’s a nice night.”

Sachirou is afraid to look at his friend, afraid to make eye contact, afraid he might cry if given the opportunity. It would be easier to stare straight ahead. Sachirou looks anyway.

Hoshiumi Kourai is beautiful. Maybe it’s weird to think your best friend is beautiful, but Sachirou doesn’t think so. In Hoshiumi, he sees a sea of stars, floating to the surface with every new decision, lighting the way as if that will help whatever mess they’ve gotten themselves into. It’s always been like this, the two of them a match that isn’t quite perfect, but good enough to last forever. Hoshiumi’s eyes are piercing with how much emotion they hold, even the corner is captivating.

“Yeah,” Sachirou’s reply is cracked. And then, “I’m gonna tell them.”

At first, Hoshiumi looks taken aback. His eyes widen a fraction before he grins, pumping his fist into the air. “Hell yeah!”

The movement jostles Sachirou. “My days of being a fraud are over,” It sounded funnier in his head; he winces.

“You’re not a fraud,” Hoshiumi’s eyebrows meet above the bridge of his nose. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m never letting you go.”

“I—” Sachirou rolls his eyes, if only to stop a stray tear from escaping. “I don’t see how that’s related.”

“Course it’s related! Why would I hold onto something with no value, huh?”

Sachirou thoughtfully doesn’t point out how Hoshiumi  _ still _ carries that chunk of fool’s gold around in his backpack like a prized possession, even though he’s known it isn’t gold since seventh grade.

“They’re gonna accept you no matter what, you know?” Hoshiumi says.

Sachirou sighs. “Probably, you’re right.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The smell of coffee is what wakes him, and an elbow in his side is what prompts him to roll out of bed.

Sachirou’s insides feel like mush; the only thing that seems solid at all is his heart, beating wildly and stinging as if it’s been impaled by a toothpick. Even his vision is blurry (but maybe that’s from having just woken up).

He can hear Mum puttering around in the kitchen, her mug clinkling the edge of the counter every time she sets it down. That rustling sound is probably Dad reading the newspaper.

For once, Sachirou doesn’t bother stretching like the protagonist of a coming-of-age film; he doesn’t need any preconceived notions of what he’s supposed to do, doesn’t need them to hold him back from possibly the most important event of his adult life thus far. (Keeping in mind that this is only day two of the many years ahead.)

He pads out into the hallway, still in his pyjamas—the pair that matches Hoshiumi’s, because why not—and Kotarou immediately springs up to greet him.

“Sachirou, is that you?” Mum calls.

Dad sets down the paper. “You’re up early.”

“There’s a gremlin in my bed,” Sachirou explains, smiling tightly.

Dad thinks it’s hilarious, judging by his reddening face.

“Actually,” Sachirou admits. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s important.”

Mum frowns. “I  _ knew _ something was wrong. Is everything okay?”

Kotarou nudges his palm, as if to encourage him.

“I know you have a lot of hopes about my future,” he begins. “And I really,  _ really _ want you to be proud of me. But I need to follow my own path. Hoshiumi convinced me that it’s time you knew.”

Mum and Dad both look like they’re holding their breath.

“I don’t want to go pro.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ♡ I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated ♡∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lilleeboi)  
> [Tumblr](https://lilleeboi-writes.tumblr.com)


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